


Per Fretum Febris

by PetrichorPerfume



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aromatherapy, Bottom Sam, Colors, Essential Oils, Fucking, M/M, Oil, Oil kink, Paint Kink, Painting, Scent Kink, Scents & Smells, Senses, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 14:33:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1944783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetrichorPerfume/pseuds/PetrichorPerfume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean traces a prayer against his skin and Sam responds with a symphony, steady drumming fingers tapping out a staccato rhythm over Dean’s heart. Dean sinks into Sam and Sam throws his head back and groans, feeling delirious in the thick air. “More,” he begs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Per Fretum Febris

There’s oil spread across the tile, soaking into their skin, beading in their hair, dripping from their fingers as they slip and slide across the slick expanses of each other’s skin. Dean reaches for the jasmine at the same time Sam reaches for the rose and their fingers meet, fumbling slippery across the floor until the oils go skidding across the room. They laugh, the sound ricocheting and echoing against the high-arched ceiling. Dean’s fingers close around the lavender and he pours a steady stream of oil between them.

 

Sam moans as the oil warms against his skin and the scent rises, thick and heady and full of life and promise. There are little patches of lemon and cypress and cedar wood and juniper and bergamot and neroli and jojoba splattered across their skin and the walls and the floor, painted in thin little finger-wide rivers and pooling between them, warm and wet and wonderful.

 

Dean traces a prayer against his skin and Sam responds with a symphony, steady drumming fingers tapping out a staccato rhythm over Dean’s heart. Dean sinks into Sam and Sam throws his head back and groans, feeling delirious in the thick air that he can’t get enough of. “More,” he begs.

 

“Gotta go slow,” Dean reminds him as he pulls out all the way to the head and sinks back in. He chuckles and dips his hand into a puddle of sandalwood and drags an open-palmed kiss across Sam’s chest.

 

Sam lets out a shaky exhale and breathes deeply of the perfumed air as he reaches out blindly for another vial. His hands close upon a small container of red liquid. He unscrews it and flicks it just enough to send a few drops careening across his skin and onto Dean, another stroke on the canvas they’re painting. He breathes and breathes and breathes and tries to pinpoint the scent amongst the others. “Cinnamon,” he laughs.

 

Dean groans as he spins his hips, in and out, in and out, in and out, slow and slower so they won’t slide across the room, tiny little breathy moans to mark their pleasure in the jungle of scents rising up between them and under them and all around.

 

Sam paints a sonnet against Dean’s ribs with one hand while the other tangles in his hair and _pulls,_ forcing Dean’s mouth to meet his in an open-mouthed, clashing, vicious kiss. It tastes like peppermint and fresh forest snow tinged with mountain pine and when they pull away, Dean’s hands start to map out the hills and valleys and plains of Sam’s chest, pausing only briefly to tug at the slippery-slick rises of his nipples.

 

With shaking hands, their fingers close around the tubes of paint. Sam squeezes out a watery, crystal blue and spreads it across Dean’s chest until his skin is like the sky, watercolor oil paint blue, blotchy with clouds and flushed like sunset. Dean gathers a dab of red on the palm of his hand and marks Sam with one singular line just above his heart, claiming him as his own.

 

Their hands close upon Sam’s cock at the same time, painting it jewel-tone purple. They tug and pull and push against one another, Dean still thrusting agonizingly slow and puffing out little breathy gasps of air into the oil-soaked scent-saturated room, Sam groaning and crying out every time Dean brushes against that place inside him that makes him see stars and stroking his purple-stained length closer and closer to completion.

 

When Sam comes, he adds sticky ropes of white to their masterpiece, splattering Dean’s blue-sky chest with tiny white stars and turning his single crisp red mark bleeding pink. When Dean comes, it takes both of them by surprise and they go skittering a few inches across the oil-slick floor before they run out of momentum and collapse against each other, sticky, wet, sated. 


End file.
